


Liath the Scarred's Diabolical Dungeon Delve

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bestiality, Blood and Violence, Dungeon, F/F, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fucked with the hilt of a weapon, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Raped by Monsters, Ritual Public Sex, Sex After Fighting/Battle, Swords & Sorcery, Tentacle Sex, Vaginal Sex, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: She had heard of a dungeon, containing a temple to a long-forgotten god of greed.  She ventured into it on her lonesome, with the intent on ransacking the place with no one to share the loot with.  However, she will soon discover just why nobody else successfully looted the dungeon.





	1. Doggy Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OneEntireBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEntireBee/gifts).



Liath the Scarred sat at the table, waiting for the serving girl to come round with another tankard of mead.  A terrible minstrel was singing songs of terrible beasts while she sat and waited.  She glared at him, but put off thoughts of maiming the fool.  At least, unless someone else who found him annoying offered some coinage for his head.  Probably wouldn’t have to wait too long.

Liath was a merchant of sorts, selling violence to whoever would pay the price.  She had come down this far south to either fight for or against the Skeleton King depending on who gave her the better offer, however, wizards had apparently driven him off and scattered his armies of the damned.  Or at least a wizard, a swordsman, an elf archer, and a halfling thief.  The important detail was that the Skeleton King was no longer threatening the locals, and as such work for a sellsword was scarce.

She had initially intended to pay her way home by guarding a Caravan headed back to the Icy Northlands where she was from, until she heard talk.  Of the dungeon.  A place where _different_ things were, all manner of beasts and hazards.  A place that accreted vileness over time.  A place built atop a temple. 

She had not had use for the gods since days long past.  She sought no favor from them, she made her own fortunes.  However, a temple of Graedig, God of Excess was bound to have treasures worth plundering.  She might not appreciate the gods, but she did appreciate that their followers tended to lean towards the rich.

“Yer here ta seek the dungeon, ain’t ya?” Liath's wait for drink was interrupted as she snapped her attention up to a wizened old man who hobbled closer and closer.  “Ye and yer companions best be avoidin’ that place.”

Despite her annoyance, Liathsmiled wide. Brushing a few strands of black hair out of her face, she said  “Old man, I am seeking the dungeon, and I will not turn around.  And I walk alone.”

The old man’s scowl deepened.  “Young lass, there ain’t a place worse fer a pretty woman then that there dungeon.  And ye say yer goin it alone?”

“Pretty? Thank you.” She said, amusedly scratching at the trio of thin scars running across her right cheek.  They were a gift from a Harpy she slew way back when she had just started killing for money. They were hardly disfiguring and were she a man they would be "dashing", but her fellows ceased calling her ‘Liath the Fair’ after she got them.  She hadn’t minded; ‘The Scarred’ was a much better name for a mercenary. She had picked up a few more across her ribs and arms; all of them on her front, throughout an eventful career.  “And yes, I intend to walk alone. Way I figure, the best way to split a treasure is all for me.  Why should I complicate that?”

“Lass you…” His ravings were ignored when the serving girl came out with more mead, which she began to down.  She was Liath the Scarred, who slew the Serpent of Stonepeak, who was sole survivor when two titanic armies clashed in the Great Dry Valley and hence settled a line of succession, who stood strong and survived an encounter with the dreaded murderous lepus of Caerbannog.

What did she have to worry about?

* * *

Liath swung her halberd, the axehead cleanly severing the head of the walking corpse.  A second swing liberated the hand that the undead had been holding a rusted, pitted dagger in.  Behind her a pile of the creatures lay in various states of dismemberment.  Occasionally, a hand would crawl or trunk would flex, but that would subside eventually. Once or twice she'd have to bat away a dismembered hand that had latched onto her chestplate.

She stepped around the blind, disarmed body and continued on her way.  Three floors down, and the dungeon had yet to impress her.  There were no treasures here, no temple to the god of greed.  Just walking corpses carrying worthlessly weathered weapons and clad in decaying burial shrouds.  Nothing that would make her rich. Yet.

And nothing that would endanger her either; these creatures were uncoordinated and simple to dispatch.  She continued down the corridor, which narrowed, illuminated by braziers which came alive as she approached.  She’d been in enough ghoul-infested ruins to take the lights for granted, and it came as a surprise when the corridor widened into a large chamber and no braziers lit her way.  Standing at the doorway she listened, hearing a overlayered huffing sounds in the distance

It wasn’t an undead.  It was something else. 

In the darkness a pair of eyes gleamed at the level of her head, reflecting the firelight of the distant braziers.  Liath scoffed and stepped forward.  Another pair of eyes opened, at the same height and to the side.  Liath steeled herself.  A third pair of eyes opened between the other two sets.  Then one of the creatures howled.  A wolf’s howl.  The others joined in, three wolves’ howls.

Then, at the moment each wolves’ howl faded, dozens of braziers inside the chamber burst alive with flames as bright as daylight.  Liath squinted at the sudden illumination, catching sight of one dark shape moving at her at high speed.  She dodged out of the way, quick to check her sides to see if the other two monsters were attacking.

There were no other wolves.

A Cerberus.

She’d fought lesser hellhounds before, but this was gigantic in comparison.  It charged a few times, yet it backed off to avoid the halberd's tip.  As her vision adjusted, she began striking, but it managed to evade her attacks. The fight seemed a stalemate. She began to size up the chamber, the exit opposite the corridor she came from.  She didn’t need to kill the dog now; at the moment they were just dancing around each other’s attacks.  This was an actual challenge, but there was nothing to loot here.  She could just leave and search for anything of value deeper in this wretched dungeon.

However, with its next charge the beast narrowly avoided her halberd and bowled her over. She landed with the clang of her armor against the floor.  She held up her weapon to block the snapping jaws of the beast.  The two side heads bit into her weapon, while the central head slipped under her guard and bit.  Its teeth didn’t even touch her flesh, instead hooking into her leather breeches.  Then it worried its head, shaking Liath from side to side until her pants ripped.

It let its prize go and Liath yelped as she felt the warm snout press against her snatch and an even hotter tongue run against her slit.  Faintly, over the smell of the fires, Liath caught a musky, masculine scent.  She scowled.  Monsters being amorous around humans was hardly unheard of, although this was Liath's fist time finding herself exposed and underneath such a beast.  That her first real fight in this stupid dungeon being an amorous dog beast pissed her off.

She sidled backwards, giving enough room to throw a kick directly at the center head’s snout.  It yipped and leapt backwards when she struck it right on the nose, the other heads letting go of her weapon in the process.  Then it hunched low and snarled.

It leapt again, obviously intending to knock her down again, but she sidestepped and swiped with her halberd, scoring a deep hit that caused an ear-splitting yowl of pain from the Cerberus.  Liath grinned as bounded across the room, giving itself plenty of distance.  She was certain that the fight was almost over.  She was not an easy meal or an easy fuck, so the dog would most certainly leave to find something else. But after a sharp intake of breath, all three heads of the beast were thrown backwards.  The Cerberus howled again, middle head first, and the two on the side joining.  It made her bones shuddered.

Then the braziers went out.

Plunged again into darkness, she tensed, trying to gauge where the creature was as she heard it padding around the room.  Her vision, having adjusted to the brightness of the braziers, was useless in the gloom.  The braziers at the exits were out as well; she could not even make out where she had come from or wished to head to.  She did her best to keep facing the sound of the hounds breathing heavily, pointing the spearhead of her halberd towards the noise as she backed away; needing to find a corner to limit the directions the creature could come from.

She heard the clicking of the thing’s claws against the stone floor, the huffing of the creature’s breath as it padded around.  Liath inhaled sharply, bracing herself when she felt a blast of hot air right in front of her face; but she was sent sprawling by a mighty impact.  Her halberd went out of her grasp, and she tumbled.  She began to push herself up when something furry and heavy pounced upon her, pinning her against the stone floor. 

Something warm and wet snapped around her right wrist.  A dog’s jaws.  The teeth against her leather braces didn’t pierce her skin, but she could not wrench free.  She pounded on the thing’s snout until it shook its head.  She yelped in pain and set her left hand on the ground to steady herself.  That’s when another set of jaws clamped on her left wrist. 

She was trapped.

It was pitch black, but in her minds eye, she could see the pulsing, red member of the beast.  She definitely could feel it.  The blunt, angled tip pressed against her slit.  The wolf’s central head lapped at the back of her neck and head and she yelled “Stop!”

The dog shoved in.  Liath's eyes slammed shut and her teeth clenched.  She was not aroused at all, and the big member shoving itself in wasn’t comfortable. It pulled out a little, then pushed in further.  She hated the small gasps and groans she let out through her closed mouth.  It kept up until it was all the way in. 

The dog held position for a while, and as full as she was, she felt herself stretched fuller as the creature’s cock began swelling at the base, locking them together.  Once it swelled to much for her to pull away, the Cerberus’s heads let go of her arms.  “Fuck you.”

The dog couldn’t understand, but it had something like that on its mind.

It slammed in roughly.

She was shoved and pulled against the floor with every powerful thrust of the beast, cursing up a storm at the dog that was getting annoyingly plaintive.  Every motion knocked the wind out of her and it hurt, but there was an undercurrent that was not unpleasant.  Hellhounds were brimming with certain magical properties.  That she was starting to feel light headed and could feel herself slickening around the beast’s cock was a side-effect of that.  Had to be.

Maybe it was something in the Cerberus’s saliva, which her arms, back, and head were liberally coated in now that all three heads were sniffing and licking her.  Maybe it was in the beast’s cock itself.  There had to be some sort of perception-altering quality to the beast. That was the only reason for the growing warmth within her, the fact that she was moving in time with the beast instead of trying to extricate herself, had to be.

She winced the Cerberus swung it's right limbs over her back, turning around and facing away from her; it's giant cock turning with it. She clamped her eyes shut as she was filled with something sickly warm and three howls echoed right behind her.  The braziers came to life again, flash-blinding her again.  Head ringing from the dog’s cries, bleary eyed from the sudden brightness, abraded, covered in dog saliva, and locked together her monstrous rapist.  This was not Liath the Scarred's proudest moment…

She groaned as the dog pulled away, not entirely out of discomfort.  Its knot was reducing in size, but it wasn’t quite small enough to extricate itself.  It tugged again, pulling her across the floor a few more times.  When it finally was able to pull free with a pop, she yelped and collapsed on her side.  Fucking miserable beast.  She looked around the room, trying to see her halberd.  Fuck it, she was definitely going to kill the dog now.  Her heart dropped as she spotted the big black wolf, halberd its maw, drop the weapon into one of the braziers. Then it turned and three sets of eyes stared at her.  Her eyes drifted down and she gasped.

Apparently, heads were not the only thing the Cerberus had three of.  And two of its cocks were still throbbing.  She whipped her head around, locking on the exit of the chamber.  Spying it, she scrambled to her feet and looked for the exit right before the wolf howled again.

Then she was in darkness again.  Only her and the ever-approaching sound of the Cerberus’s heavy breathing.

* * *

A long time later, Liath walked towards the light, a depraved mixture of fluids leaking out of her snatch. Her getaway had not gone as planned, and the Cerberus had thoroughly enjoyed itself. She would thoroughly deny ever having done the same, despite certain memories and a sick thrill that was mercifully fading.  After the beast’s third cock was spent, the braziers near the chamber’s exit came to life, without the monster howling.  Liath crawled out from under the monster, which she was fairly certain had gone to sleep, and began walking.  Weaponless, she decided to exit lest the beast awake.

The Corridor lead down, down, down.  Intricate stone work gave way to basic masonry, which gave way to rough corridors carved right out into the rock, which gave way to dirt.  When she reached the end, the hallway opened up into a _forest_.  Deep underground, far below the sun, a sickly glow from the ceiling filled the air and small trees surrounded her.

This was unexpected.  It appeared the dungeon was far vaster than she had imagined or been told.  She had hoped that maybe the Cerberus had been guarding the temple itself.  However, it was clear that the wolf had merely blocked the entrance to the dungeon’s deeper, darker areas.  The temple and its loot was still far, far away. 

Focusing on the treasure, Liath the Scarred stepped into the cold landscape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm certain that nothing bad will come of going deeper into the place you just got fucked by a mythological dog monster in. After all, if she keeps digging herself deeper, she's gotta find treasure sooner or later. 
> 
> And here we go. I'd like to thank OneEntireBee for a prompt that included the phrase "let your id run wild and free".


	2. Climactic Battle

Lor Uk-Trak strained as he dragged the net behind him, cursing Lur under his breath. His brother had was not pulling his fair share of the weight, and they had to hurry. The ceremony was going to start soon, and they had such tribute to bring before their Chieftain-Priestess, Urag Dys-yort. 

Every year on this very night, Urag Dys-yort, the voice of Rokg, would put forth a challenge in commemoration to her patron. In the annual ceremony and in countless other impromptu challenges, she had long since proven her dominance over all members of her clan, and seeking new challenges, had ordered her lessers seek out beasts from the dungeon. Honors and more would come to those who brought her a worthy challenger.

Lor was sure that their tribute would be the chosen.

“You orcish bastards! Let me out of here and I’ll tear you limb from limb!” The human who proclaimed herself Liath the Scarred roared from the net.

She was feisty, if nothing else. She’d put up a fight while they were securing her. Lor thought that about now, their sister Larg was probably waking up back where they left her after Liath knocked her out. 

Lor was certain his back would never _not_ be sore again by the time they reached the encampment. His spirits lifted seeing the others; it was highly likely that they had the best find. The rest of the clan was singed from fire, covered in webbing, coated in sticky liquids, or otherwise in states of disrepair characteristic of barely escaping a monster, or not escaping until after being thoroughly sullied. Only Tol Yag-tok had managed to successfully bring in something, and it was a fawn.

Urag Dys-Yort expressed her disappointment loudly and violently. The clan was letting their patrons down. When she saw Lor and Lur dragging their quarry, she sighed and asked “And what have you brought me, a turtle?”

Lor bowed his head and said. “Oh mighty Urag Dys-Yort, we have…”

“We brought you a pantsless human!” Lur blurted out, he had to ruin it. He finally lifted his side of the net and shook, dumping the human out onto the ground.

“A pantsless human?” Urag repeated, sizing her up. With a frustrated growl, Urag muttered, “Drag the deer to the pit. It will be my challenger this year.”

That hurt Lor. Almost as much as when Liath's fist crashed against his face. He fell, and something heavy fell atop him; it was Lur. 

It took a multitude of orcs to finally pin down the rampaging human, all the while, Lor stayed on the ground observing; mainly because he did not want to get punched in the face again. They’d just picked the human because they had luckily ran into her after this year’s turtle had somehow escaped their net. 

And now, Urag was nodding approvingly.

“Enough!” The Chieftain yelled. “I have changed my mind. Tol, release the deer; we have our challenger.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” The woman yelled beneath the pile of orcs holding her against the ground.

Urag approached her, broadly grinning. She knelt down to be closer to Lor and Lur's gift. “Do you know anything about the Orc gods, human?”

“I know fuckall about the human ones, aside from the fact their temples make good for good looting.”

That merited a chuckle from Urag, with the rest of the clan joining in when they gauged it was proper to do so. “Very well, let me explain. My patron is Rokg, a war god. Many, many years ago, he married a love goddess, Erotigena…”

“Erotigena doesn’t sound orcish… too many syllables.”

“She’s part of the Drider Pantheon.” Urag shrugged. “There was no Orc God of Love until their consummation of their union, this very night, long, long ago. And we shall commemorate this with a ritual of combat and lovemaking.”

The human looked quite confused, if Lor could be counted on to read human facial expressions. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I punch you in the face and fuck you… although that will be happening either way.” Urag grinned widely. “Now, my brethren, LET US PRAY!” 

The human yelled as the clan carried out their parts in the ritual. Hands gripped and tugged at her armor, tearing the leather and pulling the metal apart. Several of Lor’s comrades were sent sprawling by frantically thrown fists or kicks, but after several had grabbed ahold of each of the human’s limbs, they lifted her and carried her to the appointed arena and ceremoniously threw her in. The ritual fighting pit was dug to maybe waist deep, and routine flooding from the lake left the bottom damp and muddy. 

Liath had managed to pick herself up and was looking around the pit, obviously trying to figure out which point the mass of Orcs circling it was the weakest, the place she could break through. Before she could decide on a course of action, Urag jumped in after her, having cast aside her own armor. Lor studied the two. The human was tall by orc standards, and maybe muscular by human ones, but she still seemed small compared to their Chieftain. The pale, sickly pink skin of the human contrasted sharply from Urag’s vivid green. Both did have a collection of scars, maybe the human actually had been in fights before. She still stood no chance, but this would be interesting. 

They circled each other, trading a few light jabs and kicks to each other’s legs, probing for an opening. The human was obviously wary, tentatively side-stepping with her fists raised, but Urag was supremely confident, befitting her station as the Chieftain. Perhaps too confident. After an exchange of strikes that backed the human up, Urag dropped her guard and spread her arms in a classic challenge.

The two rapid jabs from Liath's left hand, followed by a massive straight from her right probably should not have surprised the Chieftain as much as they apparently did. The sound of the human's fist crashing into their Chieftain’s jaw stifled the cheers and jeers of the orc band as Urag staggered back a few steps. Liath took steps forward to capitalize, but their Cheiftain regained her senses enough to weave out of the path of the next punch, and land a blow of her own. The sound of air being forced from the human’s lungs as Urag landed a punch straight under her guard and into her stomach reinvigorated the crowd.

Urag grabbed onto the human’s shoulders, obviously intending to punish her further, but the human herself was far from done, landing a strike with the point of her knee into Urag’s stomach. It knocked the wind out of their Chieftain and buckled her knees. The Human attempted to grab ahold of Urag’s head and drive a knee into her face, but Urag managed to shove her back. The combatants took the break in proximity as a momentary chance to regain their breath, each assessing the other very carefully. 

They continued their battle, each landing several blows that would’ve obviously fell lesser warriors; Lor’s jaw still throbbed a bit from the punch he had received. The human, unaccustomed to fighting barefoot on the slick mud, was at a disadvantage as they clinched and grappled, losing her footing and scrambling to her feet repeatedly.

After causing one such fall by sweeping her enemy's feet out from beneath her, Urag attempted to follow up with a kick to the prone woman’s stomach; Liath somehow maintained the wherewithal to coil her arms around the Chieftain’s leg and twist, bringing Urag down to the dirt with her. The human may not have been particularly smart, coming to their territory alone, but Lor could appreciate her ferocity and skill. That still didn’t stop him from cursing her entire bloodline when she scrambled upon Urag and wrapped her hands around her throat.

Their Chieftain gripped Liath's wrists and tried to pry her hands off, to no avail. It was hard to make it out with the din of the Orcish crowd shouting encouragements, but Liath's jaw was working and he could occasionally parse out bits of curses and insults the human was belting out. Urag’s stuggles were weakening, and Lor saw several in the crowd uneasily shifting on their feet. Urag would be displeased if they leapt to her aid… but she’d also be more displeased at losing in a battle commemorating the marriage of her Patron.

Suddenly, a jolt ran through the body of the human as she let out a squeal; it took a second for Lor to realize that, kneeling in the mud, legs parted slightly, hands occupied, Liath had left herself wide open. Urag had slid the fingers of her left hand inside the human woman, catching her off-guard and breaking her composure. Liath had loosened her grip and pulled away, leaving her in prime position to catch a punch to the side of her jaw, sending her sprawling off the Chieftain. The crowd was deafening now.

They got to their feet; Urag rubbing her neck, Liath her jaw. Perhaps out of wariness they backed off again. A broad grin crossed the face of their chieftain, contrasted to Liath scrunching her face in rage. “What the fuck was that?!”

Lor should have suspected, given the fight that she put up while being disrobed for the challenge, that the intruder had strange ideas about what was acceptable rules… but they had caught her literally wandering around with those body parts exposed. Humans were weird about their taboos. The Chieftain let out a hearty chuckle. “You are such a fun opponent. I look forward to hearing more of your whining.”

The human growled in rage and charged, slipping on the mud of the pit. Where before she had been wary, and had landed some surprise blows and well-timed counters, now she was striking wildly, paying little heed to maintaining steady footing. Urag dodged wild swings and answered with precision. When Liath seemed to be calming down, Urag would throw out a comment and rile her back up. The human _was_ dangerous, but was less so if she was blindly furious. And unlike Lor and most of the others, Urag had been on the surface before, knew certain human cultural foibles. 

Urag ducked a wide, arcing swing of Liath's right hand, snaking an arm underneath her opponents and reaching for her chest. It was nothing more than a pinch, but Liath jumped like she’d been struck by lightning, then screamed obscenities and charged again. An attempt by Liath to take Urag down to the mud failed as she lost her footing in the slick battleground, and as she struggled to regain it, Urag took the opportunity to go on the offense.

Off balance and on the backfoot, the human parried some blows but reeled backwards from others. Her own charge had winded her, and her indignant rage at something as minor as Urag’s touch had blinded her. Doubled over from a kick to the ribs she should have seen coming, Liath let out a cry of surprise when Urag’s powerful arms curled around her neck, the sound stifled as those arms tightened cutting off her air supply.

She drove an elbow backwards, but their Chieftain stubbornly held her grip. She clawed at the arm frantically, trying to pry them off, too no avail. She even blindly threw her hand backward, trying to use the escape technique that had so insulted her when she had been on the receiving end. In response, Urag fell backwards into the mud, dragging Liath down with her; the human on top, both facing the ceiling of the dungeon. 

Eventually, Liath's struggles subsided, her limbs went limp. Urag loosened her grip and shoved the human, now coughing and gasping, off of her. As Urag Dys-Yort took a position at her bested enemy’s head, she turned and glared at Lor and Lur and beckoned them over. They quickly complied. “Grab her legs.”

They did so.

“You challenged me, human.” Urag said with relish as more members of the clan dropped into the pit, forming and ever tightening circle around the quartet at the center of attention. “You lost, now I claim my prize.”

The human managed a “Wha…” before Urag lowered herself down, pinning her foe’s arms under her knees and planting her body on the intruder’s face, muffling her voice. She grinded her genitalia against her conquered foe, sighing contentedly. Liath struggled fruitlessly, although Lor had to use all his strength to avoid her freeing her leg.

“You should begin licking now.” Urag commanded. Lor saw Lur almost let go of the leg he was holding and rush to comply with his Chieftain’s orders before he realized he wasn’t the one being told to do so. For her part, underneath her enemy, the challenger merely let out two muffled syllables. Then Urag raised her one hand high; the crowd growing silent in anticipation. The human was hardly the first challenger to be obstinate in playing their part in the ritual.

When Urag brought her hand down hard between the human's legs, with a resounding slap, Lor actually did lose his grip as she thrashed. He quickly caught the wildly kicking leg, wrapped his arms around it and slid to the ground, holding it as immobile as he could. Urag delivered several more slaps, and Lor was unsure if was pain, rage, or sadness in the muffled cries issued underneath her.

“Play along and it will be over faster…”

There was a lengthy pause, then a frustrated growl issued from beneath their Chieftain, who moaned. She let it be known the human was good with her tongue, which pleased the gods. It lasted a long time, with Urag eventually returning her hand to the human’s cunt, this time gently rubbing it. The immodest groans of their Chieftain, and the movements of her foe had quite the impression on Lor. It was not uncommon for the annual ceremonies to be highly interesting, but this, being so close, participating, having found this years’ challenger, it was overwhelming.

It took a long time, but eventually the human quivered, there was a rush of fluid, and she let out an inarticulate noise form beneath the victor. Moments later, the lyrical scream to the heavens that issued from Urag Dys-yort was echoed by her band. She collapsed, gasping atop her foe, breathing heavily.

“Are we done?” Liath the Scarred asked angrily after catching her breath. Then she shrieked when Urag pinched one of her nipples. 

Chuckling, the Chieftain got to her feet. She clasped Lor and his brother on their shoulders, grinning broadly. “You have done well. I will not forget the service you have done me and the gods this day.”

Lor just bowed his head, hoping his brother would follow suit. There was nothing they could say that wouldn’t just diminish the moment.

“By the way, didn’t your sister also leave with you to find an acceptable challenger?”

Well, that diminished the moment. “Um, yes, mighty Urag Dys-Yort, Larg was with us. Um… she…”

“…I kicked her ass and they left her in the forest.” Liath grumbled, her attempt to stand thwarted when Urag shoved her back to the mud. 

There was a substantial pause, before Urag shrugged and said. “I’m sure your sister is fine.”

At that moment, Larg Uk-Trak was being molested by a quartet of vengeful and particularly amorous turtles.

“Yes, I’m sure she is, most holy Urag Dys-Yort.” Lor said, head bowed again. “Shall we prepare your challenger for the rest of the ceremony?”

“Rest of the—whuh!” Liath managed to force herself to her feet, staring at Lor in rage. Fortunately, eyes off of their Chieftain, she never saw the fist coming until she was once again in the mud. Glaring up in fury, she yelled “You gods-damned whore!”

Completely ignoring her foe, for now, Urag nodded. “Yes. Bathe her and bring her to my tent.”

“I’m going to get you for this!” Liath threatened futilely as another net got tossed upon her. She had a long night ahead of her, and Lor knew firsthand all of the insidious devices that their Chieftain had accumulated to properly pay homage to the celestial marriage. The human would know the bit of the lash, and the feel of every phallic object the Chieftain had, and would crumble under Urag's hands. When she was done, perhaps the human would be let go, or perhaps she would be shared amongst the clan? 

As Liath continued to threaten, another thought struck Lor. Perhaps it was _mildly_ blasphemous, but if he and Lur took the opportunity to have some fun with the challenger before washing her, nobody would have to know...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an extremely serious attempt to worldbuild a unique orc culture for this fantasy setting, and not at all a transparent excuse to throw in mud wrestling that ends in lesbian domination. Not at all.


	3. Make Love(craft), not War(craft)

There are things in this world that man was not meant to know, and yet it is in the nature of man to not only seek out such knowledge, but to spread the forbidden to those who would hear. The universe is unkind and my contrition shall fall upon the uncaring void, however I pray that playing my role as a vector of such vile corruption will not blast my soul to everlasting damnation.

You may have heard the tale of Liath the Scarred, the avaricious sojourner who undertook to discover a treasure of what could have been her patron deity in greed. In previous tales of the adventuress, you may have heard she had been ravaged by a tricephalous canid, and then suffered carnal indignities at the hands of an orc Priestess-Chieftain. However, inbuilt into every single fiber of her powerful thews was such greed and lust for pecuniary benefit that she shrugged off these humiliations and continued undaunted.

After the previous adventure, she had been consigned to her two initial captors to be washed and prepared for a night of thorough molestation. However, upon dragging her to the vast underground lake, far from their encampment, the two orcs had an idea, and chose to be briefly derelict of their obligations. The brother orcs had intended to violate the adventurer thoroughly and in multiple holes for a great length of time before bringing her to their Mistress to do more of the same. However, they swiftly learned that two orcish trappers were nowhere near comparable to their mighty Mistress, or for that matter a battered yet still vital barbarian. She mercilessly pummeled each of them thoroughly on the sandy headland of that vast chthonic lake inside the accursed oubliette.

She did not ponder what dangers lurked beneath the vigintillion drops of stagnant terror as she punched one orc ruthlessly. She did not wonder the coincidence of the small boat beached upon the silica as she insulted the masculine organ of the other orc while kicking said organ. She had no reason to determine what dark providence had brought her to this shoal while her ungarmented form suplexed the orcs repeatedly.

When she finally grew bored of her sport, she espied the aforementioned boat and clambered aboard, muscles rippling as she paddled. Eyeless, pale fish sluggishly undulated through the water, feasting upon questionable detritus and being feasted up by equally questionable jellylike fiends. Since the days of her youth Liath had navigated waters full of all manner of the bizarre, and while these particular creatures were unknown to her she ascribed no particular note to them. After all, content as they were to stay beneath the waves, they gave her no reason to fear for either her life or her well-used body.

However, when she ran aground upon a slimy stone in the middle of the lake, her curiousity was piqued. To call the formation she found an island would do it injustice, for at once, the rocky surfaces were too regular to be a natural formation, calling to mind architecture and cities; but the cast of the slimy green stone and the peculiarities of the geometry were too irregular and unnatural to be of human or even orcish construction. There certainly was nary a gambrel roofed house of noble antiquity to be noted.

The citadel, as she determined it to be, was convex yet concave at the same time, curved yet straight. Perhaps imagining that treasure lay within, Liath the Scarred disembarked her boat, bare feet struggling for balance upon the slimy green stone. She explored for a long time, eventually stumbling upon a door, simultaneously too tall for her to reach the top of yet she had to stoop in her attempts to reach it.

Perhaps someone less greedy would have pondered the implications of the alien geometries of this unwholesome architecture. Perhaps they would recognize the danger of continuing their pursuit and leave, or perhaps, driven as all men are to seek answers that lead to their destruction, they would persist. Liath's motivation was a base lust for commercially beneficial items, and she continued to probe at the door.

It took time to figure out the trick to open the phantasmagorical threshold, the deceptive perspective of the building in relation to the lake which no longer seemed horizontal had delayed a mind most commonly attuned to the best way to stab a thing or certain pecuniary transactions. Yet eventually she prevailed. And found there was no treasure.

While her arrival at the arisen subterranean citadel beneath the waves had filled her with unease, it spoke to either her valor as a warrior or her delusional avarice that she had not reconsidered her course of action until she heard the footsteps of something wetly padding out of the darkness.

There are no words in English, or any language that can truly describe the nameless blasphemy that beset the treasure seeker, named elsewhere. Merely calling it disturbing or terrifying captures barely a fraction of the transcosmic revelation that merely seeing the beast would instill upon a rational mind. The beast, the monster, the god, defies any earthly understanding.

But if one were to say it was part man, part octopus, part dragon, they’d be pretty close. Liath chose not to run when the flabby, misshapen hulk, summited by a pulpy head wreathed in tendrils, lurched ungainly out of the shadow. She was a Barbarian of the Frozen North, and while a rational mind could not bear witness to such unutterable horror, her irrational greed and pride made her hold steady.

This was perhaps ill advised.

A greasy, malformed claw lifted the unarmed, naked barbarian off the ground. Liath kicked and uttered the vilest profanities, daring the creature to fight her like a man. Perhaps she had not the merest iota of pattern recognition, and so was not expecting to be molested by the abomination. Perhaps in the cephalopodian expression on its inhuman face, the unknowable desires inside the daemoniac fiend were not communicated. Perhaps she knew what was coming, but was in frantic denial.

The grip that the creatures hand had on the woman did not last long, for quickly it ceded possession of her struggling form to the dozens of tendrils which framed the dread visage of that long-forgotten titan, who slumbered and was known only in dreams. They coiled about her trunk, complicating respiration as they cinched her waist tightly enough to make inhalation difficult, they pinioned her arms together while parting her legs wide.

And then they explored.

As was her custom, Liath had not stopped throwing curses and profanities at the behemoth until one clammy, cloying limb slid between her lips, stifling her protestations. Only partially daunted, tirades in intent, if not pronunciation, were issued through a jaw held open and stuffed with the damned tentacle.

Perhaps it was then that it had registered upon the mind of Liath the Scarred that her encounter with the being of such shuddering horror would end as had her encounters with the Cerberus and the Orcish leader. Legs spread apart and arms bound, she was impotent to do anything to halt the creature from molesting her at its leisure; a fact which she must have been well aware. As was the creature, who wasted little time in having a tentacle venture into the womanhood of the adventuress, deeply and with no fanfare saved the ululation that emanated from around the tentacle gagging her. A similar effect was achieved when a third tentacle penetrated her anally.

She was filled by the tentacles having taken to residing in her mouth, her feminine anatomy, and her large intestine. And this indecent triad ventured forth to know the strange visitor who had awakened the sleeping eldritch horror. Again, time was lost to Liath as she was pummeled internally by the unclean thrusting of tentacles.

More tentacles joined the fray. There must have been, intermingled with the desperate sounds of a woman having nonconsensual intercourse with a bastion of flexible limbs, a most anomalous and disturbing squelching noise. Yet those muffled cries, to the chagrin of the victimized sellsword, began to transform themselves from the threats and insults of a proud barbarian swearing vengeance, to the plaintive mewling of a harlot in estrus.

Escape was an impossibility, and there was no fighting the inevitability as her anatomy elected to ally itself, not with Liath’s desire to retain the faintest scrap of dignity in this encounter, but to the multitudinous limbs that were stroking and thrusting and seeking places so secret that she herself was scarcely aware of them. The orgasmic conclusion of this phase of the encounter came with a muffled cry as, pried apart as she was, Liath tightened against the tentacles in her anus and dripping quim, and shuddered in unwanted ecstasies not for human comprehension against the limbs in her mouth.

Dazed from such a resolution, Liath was vaguely aware of the departure from her ravaged body of the tentacles, one at a time, feeling a sickening thrill as each limb retreated. She must have felt the most profound disgust at this encounter, and her own reaction to it, and she said the vilest profanities once her mouth was unencumbered by rubbery eldritch flesh.

Yet they were not finished yet. Tentacles slackened and once again she was in the hands of the beast, thoroughly ashamed and full of hate. Then, she noticed she was being lowered down. A gaze into the tentacular face of the giant revealed eyes that were at once utterly passionless and blazing with sadistic lust that had waited for countless strange aeons for sating. Looking down, Liath found herself facing the non-Euclidean geometries of the monstrous genitalia of the terrific ancient one. She was accustomed to the weird and the awful, and had somehow managed to gaze upon true horror the likes of which was not for mortal imagining. However, that infinitely masculine scepter of that unnameable behemoth, inciting fantastic terror and wonder, had broken the strongest of cords. Gazing upon the pulsating, blasphemous pillar of flesh that the nameless fiend intended to penetrate her with, she experienced an insight of cosmic horror and was undone by it. She gibbered madly as it lined itself up.

Let it be known, the size of the member was large. Far too large to conceivably fit inside a woman. However, like the behemoth it was attached to, the fleshy projection was not of this earth, and whether it could fit or not was not subject to laws of nature of this earth, only to the starborne lust of the massive entity. Aside from the dread immensity of that phallic masculinity, it was beyond describing. It was like the combination of a column holding up the walls of an ancient and unholy cathedral, a mighty and cyclical ouroboros, and a starfish.

Liath the Scarred’s cry of unwanted transcosmic ecstasy echoed across the still waters as the unholy juggernaut buried itself to the hilt. The mighty creature’s degenerate obscenity filled the adventurer more than she ever had been before, stretching her to limits she never knew she had and beyond. The dread violator’s thrusts were measuredly chaotic, rapidly plodding and sluggishly briskly paced. Liath experienced what humanity was not meant to as grotesque flesh slid in and out of her madly laughing form.

It could have lasted seconds or a thousand millenia, during which she experienced sensations of unparalleled horrific pleasure. The stellar insanity that the adventuress suffered through was beyond any words. A certain madman scholar of the near East once wrote in a certain tome of ill repute a passage which may be of relevance.

_That which is not dead, but in corpse-cities is stuck._

_Will with strange aeons, find a warrior woman to fuck_

Scholars have debated the meaning of this couplet ever since its writing, however, the incredibly thorough nonconsensual demolition of Liath's feminine anatomy by the vertiginous member of that unholy fiend upon that citadel of that corpse-city might be related to the blasted poem.

When the monstrosity finally finished, Liath was filled to the brim with noisesome corruption, then thoroughly coated by it as the daemon withdrew it’s spent member. Limp and mad from the otherworldly plowing she had received, Liath was adrift in her boat, the blasphemous terror fading as her distance from that aquatic Gehenna increased.

Sense gradually returned. As she pondered the possible theosophical insights gleaned from the violation, or attempted to repress the memories of being thoroughly used again in such rapid and complete succession, one sentence rang out, breaking the silence along that sunken lake.

“Wow, that was a _weird_ dick.”

* * *

The manuscript above was found amongst the papers of my late Uncle, who bequeathed it to me upon his death, of sudden and mysterious circumstances. As my uncle predicted, this Plutonian knowledge has sundered my conception of reality, and blast it to Hell, I shall too seek to, above all else, spread the word.

I had initially assumed this was merely a work of erotic fiction, however, certain lingering questions, which shall be catalogued later, caused me to investigate further, and I am quite certain that this is not merely porn.

Alongside this manuscript were a small statuette of some green stone I’ve yet unidentified, depicting the incident described, news articles about squid, and a note telling me to beware of the ancient cult that worshipped the entity whose name can most accurately be spelled as …

* * *

The editorial note above was found amongst the papers of someone who most certainly did not run afoul of an ancient murderous cult and this editorial note is totally not written by a cultist.

**_Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthu…_ **

Oh ha. My cat ran across the keyboard. Please disregard that. It’s totally not unholy chanting. Totally not. In fact, this whole thing was written by a cat pacing on a keyboard, and definitely not dead antiquarians or cultists. Obviously. Meow.

**_…lhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title was Booty Call of Cthulhu.
> 
> And there is no excuse for this. I just thought it'd be _amusing as Hell_ to write out a porn scene while trying to emulate a certain old man from Providence's particular style.


	4. Swordplay

Liath awoke, bleary eyed, as the boat ran aground again. She was sore, filthy, and unrested, and less disembarked and more flopped out of the rowboat into the water, the coldness of which jolted her awake. She bolted to her feet, toes digging in to sand. She felt unsettled and sore, but that was from the Cerberus and the orcs. That vague, half-remembered encounter in that impossible city in the waves must’ve been a nightmare.

Until she looked and saw something lying in her boat that made her gasp.

The statue was made of green rock, flecked and streaked with gold. The thing that made her gasp was the shape of it; crouched atop a small piller was the lumpy grotesque thing that had most recently raped her, hands clutching a comparatively tiny person. So it hadn’t been a dream.

She sank to her knees in the frigid surf. This entire trip had been pointless. There was no gold, no prize to be had except further humiliation and degradation. She should’ve heeded the old man’s warnings and not come. But now, could she go back? Would the journey out lead to the same conclusion?

If she turned the boat around and paddled, it would be against the waves. And she would be unarmed when she reached the shore with the orcs except for oars. Liath the Scarred was trapped, her body a plaything for whatever inhabited this dungeon. She knelt in the surf, listlessly washing away mud and something else that she was trying not to think of.

She couldn’t let it end like this. She couldn’t. She looked at the pathetic wretch reflected in the fouled water, wet and trembling, and scowled deeply. She’d fucked up, yes. But this wasn’t the first time she got carried away and made a bad gamble, even if the consequences were new to her. She’d get out.

So wrapped up in her ruminations was the barbarian that she barely had time to notice the immense, spiked club reflected in the water. She dodged at the last second, the impact of it smashing kicking up a spray of lake water and sand.

She got to her feet, steeling herself. The club was held by something slightly taller than her, but just as wide around as it was tall. The ponderous, ugly reddish thing was an ogre. It’s drooling maw curved upwards. “Pretty.”

She ducked under the club and scrambled, to the side to avoid the club, easily as wide around as she was at the hips, being wielded like it was a twig. She dodged another swing, only to catch the back of the ogre’s hand with her face.

“Pretty things taste good.” The ogre was repeatedly grumbling; her senses returning to her with a jolt as he yanked her by the hair. “Fuck and food. Best meats in belly.”

The ogre grumbled to himself about his pretty, pretty find, dragging Liath by her hair away from the shoreline as she dug her heels into the yielding sands. She pounded futilely on its arm, dug nails into flesh that they couldn’t scratch, and cursed and swore. When she saw the entrance to the cave looming before her, she redoubled her efforts to no avail.

The ogre muttered “tastes good” again and hoisted her up, holding her upside down. She cringed as a cold, wet tongue inexpertly lapped at her snatch. The thing’s bloated cock bobbed inches from her face. The thought that she should just lay down and accept it crossed her mind, before white hot rage bubbled up to the surface and consumed the thought. She couldn’t. She could not just lay back and accept it. She glared at the thing’s cock, and drew her fist back.

“Fuck then food.” The Ogre muttered.

She threw every bit of strength she had into the punch. The Ogre’s scream echoing throughout the cavern. She scrambled to her feet after being dropped to the floor, rushing for the club that the Ogre had dropped along with her; she had bought only a temporary reprieve and had to act.

The club was _heavy_ , she groaned and yelled with exertion as her back protested the lift. She struggled to keep her balance as she raised the weapon over her shoulder. The Ogre’s head snapped to her direction just as she brought the club down, gravity doing far more work on that front than her depleted strength.

The Ogre collapsed on his face, blood pooling underneath his head, while Liath slumped against the wall of the cave and slid down to a seated position. She looked at the Ogre, and then threw her head back and laughed. The margin was slim, but she had prevailed. She laughed until she was out of breath and continued, finally regaining her composure and looking at the cave.

It was lit by torches, and she could readily make out the pile of skeletons. There might be something to loot. If nothing else, she needed weapons and armor; or weapons and clothing; or weapons and anything that could cover her up a bit. The ogre’s club was far too heavy for her to use in combat effectively.

A few minutes searching, and Liath had found a few brass rings, nothing of value. There were weapons, all broken to uselessness, and destroyed armor. She cobbled together what she could, finding a studded belt with pteruges hanging down. She’d prefer actual breeches, but it was the only thing she could find to throw over herself to cover up her cunt. She wrapped her bruised knuckles in torn fabric from some unfortunate victim’s tunic.

Unfortunately, very little upper body armor remained. The breastplates were all mostly destroyed; the metal peeled back around the level of the unfortunate wearer’s abdomen, where, the Ogre had said the best meats were. What remained often had jagged edges. She eventually settled upon a the remnants vest of cloth with small metal plates sewn between layers of fabric. It was hardly ideal; midriff torn away, however there were no edges that could cut her if she moved the wrong way.

She had just finished relieving a skeleton of its boots when she saw something glint at the back of the cave. Picking up one of the torches, she smiled when she approached the back and saw her search for a weapon was at an end.

It was sword, the hilt glinting in the torchlight, blade embedded in the ground. The hilt looked to be gold, although the grip was primarily wrapped in some sturdy leather. The pommel was only slightly broader than the grip, and was in the shape of a human skull minus the mandible. Two red gemstones gleamed in the eye sockets. Etched into the crossguard was an intricate snake pattern. She wrapped her hand along it and found it was not soft and malleable; perhaps not gold.

She preferred polearms to swords, but it was far better than nothing. And if nothing else, once on the surface she did have a salable treasure. Swords weren’t cheap and the hilt displayed remarkable craftsmanship. She paused as she imagined haggling for it.

“Pay attention and free me already, woman!” A voice cried out, directly in front of her.

“What?” Liath practically jumped back.

“Pay. Attention. And. Free. Me. You. Daft. Bint.” The voice cried out, more slowly this time. “Do you have any idea how long it has been since I’ve seen anything but that brute and his meals?”

A magical talking sword. Such things had a reputation for being... less than tolerable. Still, she needed a weapon.

She strained and tugged, both hands on the Sword, but it did not budge an inch. In unison, they both said “Fuck!”

Liath asked how it had gotten stuck in this place. The sword, calling itself Bloodletter, related a tale of its role in the overthrow of kings and the building of empires, its time in the hands of heroes and villains, until its last wielder offended a witch of no slight power, who even after cursing the man who be sodomized eternally by a pair of sharkmen, chose to go further and curse its equipment. Hence why the Sword was stuck here. The Sword ended by saying “Only a very particular ritual can free me, alas, I do not know what it is."

“Then why did you ask me to try to pull you free?” Liath said, gritting her teeth.

“Because for all I know the ritual was ‘have a harlot stroll into this cave and pull’! It’s been a century, I’m getting desperate!” Bloodletter shouted back. It launched into an invective filled tirade about the witch that Liath followed for maybe five words before wondering if there was anything behind the sword she could loot. Leaning over the swearing weapon, she saw it.

“What’s this pictorial?” She asked, interrupting the Sword. Dozens of small white, black, and yellow stones were embedded in gray slab of the wall, forming a very clear image. She looked at the pictograph, featuring a woman half-crouching above a sword buried blade-first into the ground. Then she turned to Bloodletter, embedded in the stone floor. “I think I have an idea…”

“It’s a sex ritual isn’t it?”

“How did you…”

“I’m in this dungeon, am I not? Hurry it up.”

Liath got down on her knees, lifted a few of the pteruges out of the way and rubbed her snatch against the pommel of the sword, then tried to tug it loose again, getting no budge. Sighing she lowered herself down upon it. She was a little sore from her previous encounters, and the metal of the Sword was _cold_. Bracing her hands on either of the crossguards she lowered herself all the way down, then began to lift herself off, intending to dismount and try again.

“You’re probably going to have to keep at it until you climax.” She shuddered at the sound of the Sword's voice against her insides.

“What kind of witch did your last owner offend?” Liath hissed as as she continued to fuck Bloodletter, thankful that the leather wrapped around the grip was not nearly as rough as it had appeared at first touch. It was meant to be wielded with two hands, and was deep inside of her.

“The kind of witch that consigns magical swords to rape dungeons.”

There was a pause. “Keep talking. It feels good… I mean, it’ll get you free faster.”

It regaled her of its service in the hands of the marauding tyrant, giving the accursed name that Liath recognized as that of an undead warlord. While still mortal, the man had committed himself to some of the darkest gods, who all claimed his soul as their own when he was finally vanquished in battle and beheaded. Upon that day, the Sword had become a trophy.

Liath cared little for the history lesson; she needed a weapon. The weapon’s words were causing her to moan, however. The sword would pause in awkwardness before launching back into his tale, until one time, her moaning was answered by a groan from the mouth of the cave. A groan that sounded suspiciously like that of the Ogre that had dragged her here.

“You didn’t kill the Ogre?” Bloodletter yelled. The vehemence felt almost painful.

“I hit him really hard with his own club.” Liath offered through chattering teeth.

“How many times?”

“Um…”

“Pretty? Hear you…” The Ogre bellowed, then sniffed. “Smell you. You hurt me, pretty. I think I will hurt you back.”

“Hurryituphurryituphurryitup!” the Sword yelled, eliciting a whine from Liath.

A slow, heavy footfall came down. Liath shut her eyes and thought hard while rubbing herself and raising and lowering herself against the haft of the sword. Then another footfall. She thought of gold, and the great feasts, and tracts of land, and manservants and maidservants eager to serve their mistress's _every_ need she could get with it. Then another footfall. She thought of the temple deep under the dungeon, where treasures worthy of a God of Greed were.

She screamed as she lifted up, then staggered to the side, legs rubbery, muscles twitching, breath rapid. As she tried to stand, she reached out, grabbing the hilt of the sword to steady herself. She only managed to further unbalance herself when the blade slid out of the ground easily, and she spun and slumped against a wall, desperately trying to clear her head.

“Yes, you got me free!” Bloodletter exclaimed.

“Shove my club up your cunt” The Ogre stood, illuminated by the dropped torch at his feet, filling the cavern. “Do that and eat your entrails, Pretty.”

“You do know how to use a Sword, correct?” The sword asked.

Liath the Scarred pushed off from the wall, raising her newfound weapon, manic grin crossing her face. After the past few hours, _this_ would be cathartic.

* * *

“She’d be perfect for your collection.” Deara the seeress exclaimed. The flickering image of the warrior woman standing against the Ogre was impressive in all the ways that made heat run down, straight to Deara’s core.

She had once sought to cleanse this dungeon of its evil. All of the Master’s collection used to have similar delusions. The Master had found each of them and was kind enough to show them their rightful place. Free them of their foolish notions and let them embrace their place underneath him.

“She got that sword.” Aria said, scowling. Feline ears flattened as her tail twitched. “That makes her dangerous. We should kill her.”

Aria was jealous, only tolerating the others in Master’s collection because the Master willed it so. She in particular disliked Northern barbarians, an antipathy she hadn’t been able to shake despite being welcomed into his collection. That the Master had an interest in a Northerner was bad enough, but one that retrieved a magic sword that Master hadn’t let Aria try to get? Aria was _pissed_.

“Yes… she got the sword. That makes her special, does it not?” When the master spoke, it sent need lancing straight down from Deara’s bosom. He stood and strode to Aria, who was quivering in anticipation. She purred loudly when he gently stroked her cheek. “Aria, my dear, you are all special to me. But you know I cannot allow such a creature to continue on this self-destructive path. We will save her, break her of her delusions and show her rightful place beneath me.”

The thought of _breaking_ the Northerner brought a smile to Aria’s face. It immediately dissipated when the Master turned to Deara and beckoned. “Come, it is your turn.”

Aria turned away in a huff, probably to vent her frustrations with one of Master's other playthings. Deara felt a twinge of worry that subsided when she knelt before the Master and opened her mouth. The Northerner would be such a fun addition to the collection, maybe the master would allow Deara the honors of aiding him in educating her fully?

That was a good thought as the master gripped her hair and pulled her closer until she gagged, mouth full of cock.

* * *

Liath the Scarred sat on a log, watching the flames of the fire flicker, holding out a stick that skewered one of the blind fish she had caught. Beside her lay the Sword, edge still razor keen despite the years in the ground. Magical talking weapons might be annoying, but they were always high quality. In the cave maybe fifty yards further inland, the mangled corpse of the Ogre lay atop the mangled bodies of its victims.

“So…” She said when the silence became too unbearable. “…you want to talk about…”

“No.” Bloodletter abruptly shot back.

“Fair enough.” Liath said. There was more silence as Liath kept her eyes on the fish, occasionally pulling it away from the fire to check to see if it was done.

“I suppose the plan is to get back on the boat, row back to the other side of the lake, and fight your way back to the surface?” The sword finally asked as Liath took a bite of the fish.

That had appeal to her. The events of her quest were miserable. She had some rings, and an odd statue, certainly enough for a few drinks and passage home. She also had a sword, which she was still debating whether to hock or keep. But… “This trip was hardly worth it so far…”

“All the more reason to go back.” Its tone implied the sword knew exactly what Liath was thinking, and did not approve.

“It’d be a shame to have gone through all that and not at least lay eyes on the temple.”

“And it’d be a shame if you get raped again and I get cursed again because this is the sort of place where that happens.”

“Alas, I am the only one of our team with legs.” Liath said, smiling wolfishly. “So we shall visit the temple.”

“And by ‘visit’, you mean pillage it for all its worth?”

“Aye, that I do.” Liath said, broadly grinning. But in the back of her mind, something other than thoughts of gold crept in. The image in the cave, the pictorial which showed how to free the Sword, had grabbed her attention.

That the woman’s hair was black was not troubling, because that was a common color for both hair and stone. The image was too stylized to bear much more than a passing resemblance to anyone, though the features were somewhat Northern, also not particularly noteworthy. However, the fact that the woman had three red lines running down her right cheek definitely grabbed Liath the Scarred’s attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly certain that by removing the sword from the cave floor, Liath has become the new Queen of Rapetown. Don't worry, it's pronounced Rapt-ton. Although I'm sure her coronation is probably going to involve far more exposed genitalia of a variety of makes and models jammed in her face than is strictly necessary. But hey, she's got a magical sword. I'm sure the rest of this dungeon crawl will be smooth sailing, and the mysterious dark figure who collects women who venture into this dungeon will be of no problem to her.
> 
> Anyhoo, I'd like to extend my thanks to OneEntireBee for this prompt. It gave me _way_ too many ideas to get all done (way too many), and I might revisit this story to pile on more _fun_ for our heroine.


End file.
